


these hands of dust

by stringendos



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Bruises, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Injury, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon, kita is a ghost; atsumu grieves; minor sports injury; bruises imagery - more info in start notes!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stringendos/pseuds/stringendos
Summary: He reaches forward as if to cradle Atsumu’s face in his hands, his hands skimming across his cheeks, but stops short. In still air, Kita admits, so quietly, as if his voice is fading, “I can’t stay,” and Atsumu doesn’t say,‘I don’t care. Don’t go.’He has become well practiced in losing greed. Confessions now, feel like a shackle moulded from guilt.So instead, Atsumu presses forward and asks, breathless, “Is it okay if I just-"atsumu, and learning how to let go(or: kita is a ghost. even now, atsumu's still in love with him)
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40
Collections: Haikyuu Angst Week 2020





	these hands of dust

**Author's Note:**

> > written for haikyuu angst week 2020, day 4: death  
> aged up, post canon
> 
> **warnings:**  
>  \- **death:** though there is no in fic character death, there are references (kita is a ghost)  
> \- **injury:** minor sports injury (knee and shoulder - a bad landing during a match)  
> \- **bruises/bones (?):** not gore - mainly speaking of the fragility of bodies in imagery  
> \- **grief:** relatively heavy on dealing with grief/mourning  
> \- **light spoilers:** allusions to post canon jobs and atsumu's 3rd year jersey number
> 
> i think that ive overdone it w the above warnings but i just want to make sure i cover everything, as i dont want to accidentally catch anyone off guard

In dreaming, they meet.

With hands and legs and flesh and bone.

For here, they are not athletes on a coach-advised break, taken before grief saps at their marrow, and hollows out their bones. Nor are they men, robbed of a lifetime and more.

Instead, they are two; a former captain and his setter; carving spaces into the land with their heels. One steps, then turns, then bounds across an orange court. Exchanges digs for overhand, for ten is more than two, and he has always wanted to hold the universe in his hands. The other watches from an onigiri stand, smile bright, no longer hidden; pride a steady thrum beneath his pulse.

Glances are stolen, secretly then openly. Jerseys are handed over with their hearts stitched onto sleeves.

By sunrise, Atsumu wakes, his legs still wading in a chase for a dream. When it fades, the weightlessness bleeding from his limbs, he sits up and blinks sleep from his eyes.

Kita rests by the windowsill, watching the sky part as the sun steals the moon. The curtains are still open from the night before. Between them, the air sits undisturbed, thick with a world that still lies sleeping.

From here, a pillow wedged in the curve of his spine, Atsumu can pretend.

Pretend-

That he can smell the beginnings of breakfast that Kita used to prepare, can hear the clatter of bowls and spoons, the sizzle of oil hitting the pan. That he does not realise that Kita, who had always moved quietly, now moves in silence. For in footsteps and breathing, muffled becomes muted, under no rise or fall of a chest.

Because from here, Atsumu can pretend that he does not notice; the way the light passes through and sets his frame aglow; the way Kita’s body refuses to cast shadows against the floor.

* * *

At first, they meet; Atsumu, at fifteen, and a sprint to the court. Kita, sixteen - and gentle in the early morning. Bounding across the school grounds, Atsumu’s steps like thunder in school regulated shoes, which then stop short when he’s greeted by air that moves, viscous. Here is Kita, _Kita-san_ , who could intimidate with a stare alone.

Then, they meet; in memories that seem more false than true. For time steals and hoards and eats away at stories, until nothing but the barebones remain; and even those threaten to whittle down into dust.

At the funeral, Atsumu stands, his knees weak; body caged in a suit that he wishes he'd never wear. To the Kita family, he offers condolences, though clumsily; then incense, in his trembling hands.

Here, he does not remember the exact motions; can only recall what his muscles retain. He stands, then sits, then bows. His stomach lies in knots, his eyes are swollen from crying, his chest aches, like every breath is another mountain to climb, with thinner air each time.

* * *

He runs.

Through Osaka's streets, up their winding mountain paths; till his lungs are wheezing and he's doubled over, his heartbeat roaring behind his ears. He leaves his bones to creak and protest under the weight, his nails etching crescent marks in his palms and-

He runs.

Too hard on the court. Plays become double contacts become faults. But even these mistakes that steal are stolen from, when they lose the opportunity to drag him to the bench. Cut short from reaching out and wrapping their fingers around his ankle, his knee buckles, and his shoulder hits the floor.

Bodies and minds collide and bear their teeth to the world, but then turn tail and switch on him; pressing their claws to his neck. He works through physio appointments under his brother’s watchful gaze to repair bones and muscle; lets his body move while his mind remains stagnant, and-

He runs.

Past the court, past the mountains; Osaka and their concrete jungle, their buildings that pierce the sky; until Osamu grabs him by the shoulders, and lets him smother his sobs into his chest. Grief overrides and numbs and then comes crashing down all at once, splitting through his sternum until he’s left heaving.

Osamu leads him home, helps him pack, and gently turns him in a new direction.

Together, they go; past Tamba, past Fukuchiyama, past Yabu, until the skyscrapers fall away, the sky stretches wide into blue, and the fields greet them with kindness, as if they were expecting them.

* * *

(Part way, lost on another path in the area, Kita’s grandmother finds them and asks, "Would you like to see Shin-chan?")

* * *

They meet, once more, in the outskirts of Hyogo. Kita, thigh deep in green, basking in sunlight. Atsumu; head in his heart, heart in his throat.

When their eyes meet across the field, the grass is greener than he's ever seen; the sun is bright, blindingly so, as if threatening to singe the clouds. This planet is far more beautiful than he’s ever known.

Beneath him, the earth threatens to fall away. As if the sky is collapsing around him, his sobs overcome him, leaving him to gasp for air.

Kita rushes over, as if to catch him, as his knees meet the soil; bruises blooming beneath his skin, his palms scratched with dirt.

* * *

In living, he learns.

Of Kita-san and chores done diligently, like daily rituals. These are motions familiar, learnt under gaze alone. Atsumu watches, always, as if trying to commit everything to memory.

 _Watching_ flows into _following_ ; now, years later, he does it in place of him. Picks up the mantle just as he did in captaincy.

Kita teaches him the wonder of quiet, in stillness. In giving new meanings of early morning and the art of being present to greet the sun.

At sixteen, he recalls; the careful threading of laces into shoes; the way Kita observes, then mends - the holes in their defence in matches, the holes in their nets in practice. Mesh pulled taut before him, Kita sits, weaving twine and knotting each time, no corners cut.

As if to gather these moments into his palms and hoard them for himself, Atsumu remembers.

Atsumu and Kita-san, and their routines in pre-morning practice and setting up the nets. At the side furthest from the crank - loop once, then twice, a third, caged on either side. Follow through, pull back to tighten until the rope wheezes beneath the knot.

Now, their roles reversed, Kita sits and watches. Atsumu, chasing 30, lets him.

* * *

Sometimes, they lie together in the fields.

The grass below does not bend or give way to Kita, nor mould to him as it does for Atsumu. Above, the stars blink down upon them. With his eyes, Atsumu draws out constellations in the inked sky. With his fingers, Atsumu wishes, he could draw out the same; those constellations that climb across the back of Kita’s neck. And wonders if there is anyone listening to pleas made on stars, or if these words were meant to be set alight in flames. 

(For these wishes will fade in hours chasing daylight, the stilted silence unbecoming of the night; and Atsumu knows he must stop filling spaces with empty promises.)

But for now, Atsumu grants himself these mercies and allows himself to speak of words that he’s kept guarded.

* * *

“Kita-san,” Atsumu breathes out, soft; scared to disturb still waters, as if a ripple will be enough to wipe away this moment. “Kita-san.” Once more, before these seconds are snatched back into the universe, away from Atsumu’s mere mortal hands they deem unworthy. “ _Kita-san,_ ” as if it’s the only word worth knowing.

* * *

“I was in love with you then.” In a quiet admittance that he wants to be able to afford. “I’m still in love with you now.”

* * *

Behind the curtain, Atsumu can almost imagine.

Imagine-

The shape of another. That the sheet bends against the wind through the open window, and gets caught across Kita’s shoulders, his elbows, his knees. _Here_ , Atsumu thinks, _is the crown of his head. Here is his ribcage. His wrists, his forehead, his waist._

Atsumu’s fingers can sculpt around the dips of Kita’s spine, the bumps of his ribs, as if they were crafted alongside each other, their limbs made to fit. When he comes up behind Kita as he makes breakfast, Atsumu’s chin can fit in the valley of Kita’s shoulder, chest pressed to his back, close enough for him to hear Kita’s heartbeat.

Behind the curtain, Atsumu stops-

-holds his breath in his chest, and closes his eyes.

Without eyes and hands, they do not see or feel; but move in memory alone. Where bodies fail, minds fill - these gaps that are left behind in a trail of half steps. Together, they pretend they can feel the other, and their warmth through the veil.

When eyes open, the curtains fall. The show ends.

Illusions crumble when Kita steps through and lets the mask cut through his cheeks. He reaches forward as if to cradle Atsumu’s face in his hands, his thumbs skimming across his cheeks, but stops short.

In still air, Kita admits, so quietly, as if his voice is fading, “I can’t stay,” and Atsumu doesn’t say, _‘I don’t care. Don’t go.’_

He has become well practiced in losing greed. Confessions now, feel like a shackle moulded from guilt.

So instead.

Instead.

Instead, Atsumu presses forward and asks, breathless, “Is it okay if I just-” He pauses. A pulse. Then two. “Kita-san, can I-?"

From here, as the sunlight filters through, in pinks and golds and a warmth heavy on his cheeks, Atsumu can kid himself. That in silence, Atsumu can hear Kita’s breath fall in time with his own, that he can run his hands over his arms, in all the crevices of his skin, and feel the goosebumps that erupt. That he can trace his calluses that harden from honest work, that beneath his skin, lie veins that crawl through his muscles.

Kita’s eyes soften before he nods.

So Atsumu stretches out his hands, lets them ghost along Kita’s cheekbones as close as time will allow, as close as this side of the universe will let him, in a press of their foreheads together.

* * *

Atsumu holds the sunlight in his hands,

just as ribs hold a heart, still beating; a spine carries the weight of the earth. His shoulder blades that staple wings with no space to fly. 

And he will hold Kita’s face in his hands, his touch barely a ghost of one, as if worried to crush a universe in want.

* * *

In living, he does not learn.

Of Kita Shinsuke and his hands. The warmth of his palms, the weight of his head on his shoulder; the dip of his collarbone, or how his fingers fit against his own. He does not learn the weight of footfalls across creaky floorboards, or the sound of Kita's breathing, heavy with sleep. A blush that rises on cheeks, when Atsumu leans in a little too close.

He does not learn the ridges of his ribcage, or the pulse behind that beats steady.

For these are hands built from dust, that crumble under heavy weights; and there is no kingdom granted for mere humans to carry.

**Author's Note:**

> \- a ghost au has been lying dormant in my brain since 2015 and then suddenly reminded me of its existence as i was talking about atsukita with lauren the other day  
> \- ty to jihye for watching all million and one different versions change over the years ;; past us probably did not expect it to turn out like this lol  
> \- i think... this may be less angst... and more gentle bittersweetness..........
> 
> thanks for reading!! // [twitter](http://twitter.com/centreskies)


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